A FALSE ALARM
Every time I visit Paris, which, unhappily, is too often, it rains in
torrents. It makes no difference whether I change the time of starting
from that which I had fixed upon at first, stop on the way, travel at
night, resort, in short, to a thousand devices to deceive the barometer-
at ten leagues from Paris the clouds begin to pile up and I get out of
the train amidst a general deluge.
On the occasion of my last visit I found myself as usual in the street,
followed by a street porter carrying my luggage and addressing despairing
signals to all the cabs trotting quickly past amid the driving rain.
After ten minutes of futile efforts a driver, more sensible than the
others, and hidden in his triple cape, checks his horses. With a single
bound I am beside the cab, and opening, the door with a kind of frenzy,
jump in.
Unfortunately, while I am accomplishing all this on one side, a
gentleman, similarly circumstanced, opens the other door and also jumps
in. It is easy to understand that there ensues a collision.
"Devil take you!" said my rival, apparently inclined to push still
farther forward.
I was about to answer him, and pretty sharply, too, for I hail from the
south of France and am rather hotheaded, when our eyes met. We looked
one another in the face like two lions over a single sheep, and suddenly
we both burst out laughing. This angry gentleman was Oscar V., that dear
good fellow Oscar, whom I had not seen for ten years, and who is a very
old friend of mine, a charming fellow whom I used to play with as a boy.
We embraced, and the driver, who was looking at us through the window,
shrugged his shoulders, unable to understand it all. The two porters,
dripping with water, stood, one at each door, with a trunk on his
shoulder. We had the luggage put on the cab and drove off to the Hotel
du Louvre, where Oscar insisted on dropping me.
"But you are travelling, too, then?" said I to my friend, after the
first moments of expansion. "Don't you live in Paris?"
"I live in it as little as possible and have just come up from Les
Roches, an old-fashioned little place I inherited from my father, at
which I pass a great deal of the year. Oh! it is not a chateau; it is
rustic, countrified, but I like it, and would not change anything about
it. The country around is fresh and green, a clear little river flows
past about forty yards from the house, amid the trees; there is a mill in
the background, a spreading valley, a steeple and its weather-cock on the
horizon, flowers under the windows, and happiness in the house. Can I
grumble? My wife makes exquisite pastry, which is very agreeable to me
and helps to whiten her hands. By the way, I did not tell you that I am
married. My dear fellow, I came across an angel, and I rightly thought
that if I let her slip I should not find her equal. I did wisely. But I
want to introduce you to my wife and to show you my little place. When
will you come and see me? It is three hours from Paris--time to smoke a
couple of cigars. It is settled, then--I am going back to-morrow morning
and I will have a room ready for you. Give me your card and I will write
down my address on it."
All this was said so cordially that I could not resist my friend's
invitation, and promised to visit him.
Three or four days later, Paris being empty and the recollection of my
old companion haunting me, I felt a strong desire to take a peep at his
conjugal felicity and to see with my own eyes this stream, this mill,
this steeple, beside all which he was so happy.
I reached Les Roches at about six in the evening and was charmed at the
very first glance. Oscar's residence was a little Louis Quinze chateau
buried in the trees; irregularly built, but charmingly picturesque. It
had been left unaltered for a century at least, and everything, from the
blackened mansard roofs with their rococo weather-cocks, to the bay
windows with their tiny squares of glass and the fantastic escutcheon
over the door, was in keeping. Over the thick tiles of the somewhat
sunken roof, the rough-barked old chestnuts lazily stretched their
branches. Creepers and climbing roses wantoned over the front, framing
the windows, peeping into the garrets, and clinging to the waterspouts,
laden with large bunches of flowers which swayed gently in the air. Amid
all these pointed roofs and this profusion of verdure and trees the blue
sky could only be caught a glimpse of here and there.
The first person I saw was Oscar, clad in white from head to foot, and
wearing a straw hat. He was seated on an enormous block of stone which
seemed part and parcel of the house, and appeared very much interested in
a fine melon which his gardener had just brought to him. No sooner had
he caught sight of me than he darted forward and grasped me by the hand
with such an expression of good-humor and affection that I said to
myself, "Yes, certainly he was not deceiving me, he is happy." I found
him just as I had known him in his youth, lively, rather wild, but kind
and obliging.
"Pierre," said he to the gardener, "take this gentleman's portmanteau to
the lower room," and, as the gardener bestirred himself slowly and with
an effort, Oscar seized the portmanteau and swung it, with a jerk, on to
the shoulders of the poor fellow, whose legs bent under the weight.
"Lazybones," said Oscar, laughing heartily. "Ah! now I must introduce
you to my little queen. My wife, where is my wife?"
He ran to the bell and pulled it twice. At once a fat cook with a red
face and tucked-up sleeves, and behind her a man-servant wiping a plate,
appeared at the ground-floor windows. Had they been chosen on purpose?
I do not know, but their faces and bearing harmonized so thoroughly with
the picture that I could not help smiling.
"Where is your mistress?" asked Oscar, and as they did not answer
quickly enough he exclaimed, "Marie, Marie, here is my friend George."
A young girl, fair as a lily, appeared at a narrow, little window, the
one most garlanded by, flowers, on the first floor. She was clad in a
white dressing-gown of some particular shape; I could not at first make
out. With one hand she gathered its folds about her, and with the other
restrained her flowing hair. Hardly had she seen me when she blushed,
somewhat ashamed, no doubt, at having been surprised in the midst of her
toilet, and, giving a most embarrassed yet charming bow; hurriedly
disappeared. This vision completed the charm; it seemed to me that I had
suddenly been transported into fairy-land. I had fancied when strapping
my portmanteau that I should find my friend Oscar installed in one of
those pretty, little, smart-looking houses, with green shutters and gilt
lightning-conductor, dear to the countrified Parisian, and here I found
myself amid an ideal blending of time-worn stones hidden in flowers,
ancient gables, and fanciful ironwork reddened by rust. I was right in
the midst of one of Morin's sketches, and, charmed and stupefied, I stood
for some moments with my eyes fixed on the narrow window at which the
fair girl had disappeared.
"I call her my little queen," said Oscar, taking my arm. "It is my wife.
Come this way, we shall meet my cousin who is fishing, and two other
friends who are strolling about in this direction, good fellows, only
they do not understand the country as I do--they have on silk stockings
and pumps, but it does not matter, does it? Would you like a pair of
slippers or a straw hat?
I hope you have brought some linen jackets. I won't offer you a glass of
Madeira--we shall dine at once. Ah! my dear fellow, you have turned up
at the right moment; we are going to taste the first melon of the year
this evening."
"Unfortunately, I never eat melons, though I like to see others do so."
"Well, then, I will offer you consolation by seeking out a bottle of my
old Pomard for you. Between ourselves, I don't give it to every one; it
is a capital wine which my poor father recommended to me on his deathbed;
poor father, his eyes were closed, and his head stretched back on the
pillow. I was sitting beside his bed, my hand in his, when I felt it
feebly pressed. His eyes half opened, and I saw him smile. Then he said
in a weak, slow, and the quavering voice of an old man who is dying: 'The
Pomard at the farther end--on the left--you know, my boy--only for
friends.' He pressed my hand again, and, as if exhausted, closed his
eyes, though I could see by the imperceptible motion of his lips that he
was still smiling inwardly. Come with me to the cellar," continued
Oscar, after a brief silence, "at the farther end to the left, you shall
hold the lantern for me."
When we came up from the cellar, the bell was ringing furiously, and
flocks of startled birds were flying out of the chestnut-trees. It was
for dinner. All the guests were in the garden. Oscar introduced me in
his off-hand way, and I offered my arm to the mistress of the house to
conduct her to the dining-room.
On examining my friend's wife, I saw that my first impression had not
been erroneous--she was literally a little angel, and a little angel in
the shape of a woman, which is all the better. She was delicate, slender
as a young girl; her voice was as thrilling and harmonious as the
chaffinch, with an indefinable accent that smacked of no part of the
country in particular, but lent a charm to her slightest word. She had,
moreover, a way of speaking of her own, a childish and coquettish way of
modulating the ends of her sentences and turning her eyes toward her
husband, as if to seek for his approbation. She blushed every moment,
but at the same time her smile was so bewitching and her teeth so white
that she seemed to be laughing at herself. A charming little woman!
Add to this a strange yet tasteful toilette, rather daring, perhaps,
but suiting this little queen, so singular in herself. Her beautiful
fair hair, twisted up apparently at hazard, was fixed rather high up on
the head by a steel comb worn somewhat on one side; and her white muslin
dress trimmed with wide, flat ruches, cut square at the neck, short in
the skirt, and looped up all round, had a delicious eighteenth-century
appearance. The angel was certainly a trifle coquettish, but in her own
way, and yet her way was exquisite.
Hardly were we seated at table when Oscar threw toward his little queen
a rapid glance, but one so full of happiness and-why should I not say it?
--love that I experienced a kind of shiver, a thrill of envy,
astonishment, and admiration, perhaps. He took from the basket of
flowers on the table a red rose, scarcely opened, and, pushing it toward
her, said with a smile:
"For your hair, Madame."
The fair girl blushed deeply, took the flower, and, without hesitation,
quickly and dexterously stuck it in her hair, high up on the left, just
in the right spot, and, delightedly turning round to each of us, repeated
several times, amid bursts of laughter, "Is it right like that?"
Then she wafted a tiny kiss with the tips of her fingers to her husband,
as a child of twelve would have done, and gayly plunged her spoon into
the soup, turning up her little finger as she did so.
The other guests had nothing very remarkable about them; they laughed
very good-naturedly at these childish ways, but seemed somewhat out of
place amid all this charming freedom from restraint. The cousin, above
all, the angler, with his white waistcoat, his blue tie, his full beard,
and his almond eyes, especially displeased me. He rolled his r's like an
actor at a country theatre. He broke his bread into little bits and
nibbled them as he talked. I divined that the pleasure of showing off
a large ring he wore had something to do with this fancy for playing with
his bread. Once or twice I caught a glance of melancholy turned toward
the mistress of the house, but at first I did not take much notice of it,
my attention being attracted by the brilliant gayety of Oscar.
It seemed to me, however, at the end of a minute or so, that this young
man was striving in a thousand ways to engage the attention of the little
queen.
The latter, however, answered him in the most natural way in the world,
neither betraying constraint nor embarrassment. I was mistaken,
no doubt. Have you ever noticed, when you are suddenly brought into the
midst of a circle where you are unacquainted, how certain little details,
matters of indifference to every one else, assume importance in your
eyes? The first impression is based upon a number of trifles that catch
your attention at the outset. A stain in the ceiling, a nail in the
wall, a feature of your neighbor's countenance impresses itself upon your
mind, installs itself there, assumes importance, and, in spite of
yourself, all the other observations subsequently made by you group
around this spot, this nail, this grimace. Think over it, dear reader,
and you will see that every opinion you may have as to a fact, a person,
or an object has been sensibly influenced by the recollection of the
little trifle that caught your eye at the first glance. What young girl
victim of first impressions has not refused one or two husbands on
account of a waistcoat too loose, a cravat badly tied, an inopportune
sneeze, a foolish smile, or a boot too pointed at the toe?
One does not like admitting to one's self that such trifles can serve as
a base to the opinion one has of any one, and one must seek attentively
in order to discover within one's mind these unacknowledged germs.
I recollect quite well that the first time I had the honor of calling on
Madame de M., I noticed that one of her teeth, the first molar on the
right, was quite black. I only caught a glimpse of the little black
monster, such was the care taken to hide it, yet I could not get this
discovery out of my head. I soon noticed that Madame de M. made
frightful grimaces to hide her tooth, and that she took only the smallest
possible mouthfuls at table to spare the nervous susceptibilities of the
little monster.
I arrived at the pitch of accounting for all the mental and physical
peculiarities of Madame de M. by the presence of this slight blemish,
and despite myself this black tooth personified the Countess so well that
even now, although it has been replaced by another magnificent one, twice
as big and as white as the bottom of a plate, even now, I say, Madame de
M. can not open her mouth without my looking naturally at it.
But to return to our subject. Amid all this conjugal happiness, so
delightfully surrounded, face to face with dear old Oscar, so good, so
confiding, so much in love with this little cherub in a Louis XV dress,
who carried grace and naivete to so strange a pitch, I had been struck by
the too well combed and foppish head of the cousin in the white
waistcoat. This head had attracted my attention like the stain on the
ceiling of which I spoke just now, like the Countess's black tooth, and
despite myself I did not take my eyes off the angler as he passed the
silver blade of his knife through a slice of that indigestible fruit
which I like to see on the plates of others, but can not tolerate on my
own.
After dinner, which lasted a very long time, we went into the garden,
where coffee had been served, and stretched ourselves out beatifically,
cigar in mouth. All was calm and silent about us, the insects had ceased
their music, and in an opaline sky little violet clouds were sleeping.
Oscar, with a happy air, pointed out to me the famous mill, the quiet
valley, and farther on his loved stream, in which the sun, before
setting, was reflecting itself amid the reeds. Meanwhile the little
queen on her high heels flitted round the cups like a child playing at
party-giving, and with a thousand charming touches poured out the boiling
coffee, the odor of which blended deliciously with the perfume of the
flowers, the hay, and the woods.
When she had finished she sat down beside her husband, so close that her
skirt half hid my friend, and unceremoniously taking the cigar from his
lips, held it at a distance, with a little pout, that meant, "Oh, the
horrid thing!" and knocked off with her little finger the ash which fell
on the gravel. Then she broke into a laugh, and put the cigar back
between the lips of her husband held out to her.
It was charming. Oscar was no doubt accustomed to this, for he did not
seem astonished, but placed his hand on his wife's shoulder, as one would
upon a child's, and, kissing her on the forehead, said, "Thanks, my
dear."
"Yes, but you are only making fun of me," said the young wife, in a
whisper, leaning her head against her husband's arm.
I could not help smiling, there was so much coaxing childishness and
grace in this little whispered sentence. I do not know why I turned
toward the cousin who had remained a little apart, smoking in silence.
He seemed to me rather pale; he took three or four sudden puffs, rose
suddenly under the evident influence of some moral discomfort, and walked
away beneath the trees.
"What is the matter with cousin?" said Oscar, with some interest.
"What ails him?"
"I don't know," answered the little queen, in the most natural manner in
the world, "some idea about fishing, no doubt."
Night began to fall; we had remained as I have said a long time at table.
It was about nine o'clock. The cousin returned and took the seat he had
occupied before, but from this moment it seemed to me that a strange
constraint crept in among us, a singular coolness showed itself. The
talk, so lively at first, slackened gradually and, despite all my efforts
to impart a little life to it, dragged wretchedly. I myself did not feel
very bright; I was haunted by the most absurd notions in the world;
I thought I had detected in the sudden departure of the cousin, in his
pallor, in his embarrassed movements, the expression of some strong
feeling which he had been powerless to hide. But how was it that that
adorable little woman with such a keen intelligent look did not
understand all this, since I understood it myself? Had not Oscar,
however confiding he might be, noted that the departure of the cousin
exactly coincided with the kiss he had given his wife? Were these two
blind, or did they pretend not to see, or was I myself the victim of an
illusion? However, conversation had died away; the mistress of the
house, singular symptom, was silent and serious, and Oscar wriggled in
his chair, like a man who is not altogether at ease. What was passing in
their minds?
Soon we heard the clock in the drawing-room strike ten, and Oscar,
suddenly rising, said: "My dear fellow, in the country it is Liberty
Hall, you know; so I will ask your permission to go in--I am rather tired
this evening. George," he added to me, "they will show you your room; it
is on the ground floor; I hope that you will be comfortable there."
Everybody got up silently, and, after bidding one another good-night in
a somewhat constrained manner, sought their respective rooms. I thought,
I must acknowledge, that they went to bed rather too early at my
friend's. I had no wish to sleep; I therefore examined my room, which
was charming. It was completely hung with an old figured tapestry framed
in gray wainscot. The bed, draped in dimity curtains, was turned down
and exhaled that odor of freshly washed linen which invites one to
stretch one's self in it. On the table, a little gem dating from the
beginning of the reign of Louis XVI, were four or five books, evidently
chosen by Oscar and placed there for me. These little attentions touch
one, and naturally my thoughts recurred to the dear fellow, to the
strange incident of the evening, to the vexations and tortures hidden,,
perhaps, by this apparent happiness. I was ridiculous that night--
I already pitied him, my poor friend.
I felt quite touched, and, full of melancholy, went and leaned against
the sill of the open window. The moon had just risen, the sky was
beautifully clear, whiffs of delicious perfumes assailed my nostrils.
I saw in the shadow of the trees glowworms sparkling on the grass, and,
in the masses of verdure lit up mysteriously by the moon, I traced
strange shapes of fantastic monsters. There was, above all, a little
pointed roof surmounted by a weathercock, buried in the trees at about
fifty paces from my window, which greatly interested me. I could not in
the obscurity make out either door or windows belonging to this singular
tower. Was it an old pigeon-house, a tomb, a deserted summer-house?
I could not tell, but its little pointed roof, with a round dormer
window, was extremely graceful. Was it chance or an artist lull of taste
that had covered this tower with creepers and flowers, and surrounded it
with foliage in such capricious fashion that it seemed to be hiding
itself in order to catch all glances? I was gazing at all this when I
heard a faint noise in the shrubbery. I looked in that direction and I
saw--really, it was an anxious moment--I saw a phantom clad in a white
robe and walking with mysterious and agitated rapidity. At a turning of
the path the moon shone on this phantom. Doubt was impossible; I had
before my eyes my friend's wife. Her gait no longer had that coquettish
ease which I had noticed, but clearly indicated the agitation due to some
strong emotion.
I strove to banish the horrible suspicion which suddenly forced itself
into my mind. "No," I said to myself, "so much innocence and beauty can
not be capable of deception; no doubt she has forgotten her fan or her
embroidery, on one of the benches there." But instead of making her way
toward the benches I noticed on the right, the young wife turned to the
left, and soon disappeared in the shadow of the grove in which was hidden
the mysterious turret.
My heart ached. "Where is she going, the hapless woman?" I exclaimed to
myself. "At any rate, I will not let her imagine any one is watching
her." And I hurriedly blew out my candle. I wanted to close my window,
go to bed, and see nothing more, but an invincible curiosity took me back
to the window. I had only been there a few minutes when I plainly
distinguished halting and timid footsteps on the gravel. I could see no
one at first, but there was no doubt that the footsteps were those of a
man. I soon had a proof that I was not mistaken; the elongated outline
of the cousin showed up clearly against the dark mass of shrubbery.
I should have liked to have stopped him, the wretch, for his intention
was evident; he was making his way toward the thicket in which the little
queen had disappeared. I should have liked to shout to him, "You are a
villain; you shall go no farther." But had I really any right to act
thus? I was silent, but I coughed, however, loud enough to be heard by
him.
He suddenly paused in his uneasy walk, looked round on all sides with
visible anxiety, then, seized by I know not what impulse, darted toward
the pavilion. I was overwhelmed. What ought I to do? Warn my friend,
my childhood's companion? Yes, no doubt, but I felt ashamed to pour
despair into the mind of this good fellow and to cause a horrible
exposure. "If he can be kept in ignorance," I said to myself, "and then
perhaps I am wrong--who knows? Perhaps this rendezvous is due to the
most natural motive possible."
I was seeking to deceive myself, to veil the evidence of my own eyes,
when suddenly one of the house doors opened noisily, and Oscar--Oscar
himself, in all the disorder of night attire, his hair rumpled, and his
dressing-gown floating loosely, passed before my window. He ran rather
than walked; but the anguish of his heart was too plainly revealed in the
strangeness of his movements. He knew all. I felt that a mishap was
inevitable. "Behold the outcome of all his happiness, behold the bitter
poison enclosed in so fair a vessel!" All these thoughts shot through my
mind like arrows. It was necessary above all to delay the explosion,
were it only for a moment, a second, and, beside myself, without giving
myself time to think of what I was going to say to him, I cried in a
sharp imperative tone:
"Oscar, come here; I want to speak to you."
He stopped as if petrified. He was ghastly pale, and, with an infernal
smile, replied, "I have no time-later on."
"Oscar, you must, I beg of you--you are mistaken."
At these words he broke into a fearful laugh.
"Mistaken--mistaken!"
And he ran toward the pavilion.
Seizing the skirt of his dressing-gown, I held him tightly, exclaiming:
"Don't go, my dear fellow, don't go; I beg of you on my knees not to go."
By way of reply he gave me a hard blow on the arm with his fist,
exclaiming:
"What the devil is the matter with you?"
"I tell you that you can not go there, Oscar," I said, in a voice which
admitted of no contradiction.
"Then why did not you tell me at once."
And feverishly snatching his dressing-gown from my grasp, he began to
walk frantically up and down.